


The Weight Of Living

by thecomedownchampion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Ignoring Season 4, Loss of Virginity, M/M, post-3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomedownchampion/pseuds/thecomedownchampion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing was a slow process. It was like driving up a mountain in the winter without snow tires; you’d make a little progress, slip back a little, keep moving forward, get stuck in a snow drift and have to dig yourself out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight Of Living

The first time Stiles thought about losing his virginity, he was twelve years old and he pictured himself in a big, beautiful bed with petite, beautiful Lydia Martin. Her strawberry blonde hair was spread across the pillow like seaweed and her plush, pink lips were curved into a soft smile. Their arms were around each other and they traded sweet kisses between “I love you”s and everything was perfect, like in the movies his mom used to watch. As puberty came into full swing, Stiles would picture himself having sex with Lydia Martin many more times and under far more explicit terms, but when the haze of lust faded he always came back to that perfect image of care and tenderness.

The first time Stiles thought about having sex with a man, he was sixteen years old and his heart was pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape from his chest. His back was pressed against his bedroom door and Derek Hale’s fist gripped the front of his jacket.

“If you say one word...” Derek said, and Stiles could feel his breath against his lips. From this close, Stiles could see the ring of brown engulfing the pupils of Derek’s green eyes. His dark eyebrows were drawn down into a severe glare that did little to diminish how handsome he was.

“What?” Stiles said breathlessly. “You mean like, ‘hey, Dad! Derek Hale’s in my room. Bring your gun’?”

Derek fumed at him silently.

Feeling more confident, Stiles said, “Yeah, that’s right. If I’m harbouring your fugitive ass, it’s my house, my rules, buddy.” And with a rush of excitement, he slapped the back of his hand against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek leaned in slightly and his gaze fell to Stiles’ mouth as he nodded. For a tense moment, Stiles thought Derek was about to kiss him and he swallowed, pressing his lips together. He pictured Derek closing the remaining distance between them and coaxing his mouth open with his tongue as their hips aligned. But then Derek was drawing away, out of Stiles’ personal space, and his hand was falling to his side. The moment had passed.

Stiles’ confusion, however, had not. Even though werewolves were real and the world as they knew it was falling apart, Stiles was caught up in his own personal discovery. He knew, later, that he had _wanted_ Derek to kiss him. With this new perspective, things Stiles had thought and felt before were placed into a new context.

Stiles’ initial fantasies involving Derek were few and far between, tentative forays into uncharted territory. Instead of small, dainty hands tracing his skin he pictured large hands holding his hips down while stubble scraped his inner thighs red. Sex with Derek, in Stiles’ imagination, was intense and passionate. It was a force of nature that was all-consuming. If Derek was the sun then Stiles was Icarus, burning beneath his mouth and fingertips. When it was over, Stiles was left gasping into the darkness alone, his sheet stuck to his back with sweat.

The night Stiles held Derek up in the swimming pool for two hours was the first and only time he imagined sex with Derek could be gentle. He pictured Derek beneath him, hands framing his ribs, with that same raw, vulnerable look he’d had when they talked in the school parking lot afterward. In Stiles’ mind, he leaned down on his elbows and kissed the cracks in Derek’s facade, making them known but not exploiting the weaknesses. Derek’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head and Stiles pressed closer so that their bodies moved together sinuously. As he came back to himself, Stiles flushed with embarrassment at the sheer intimacy of it.

Things changed after the night Jackson Whittemore died twice and came back as a werewolf. Without really meaning to, Stiles found himself fantasizing less about Lydia Martin and more about Derek Hale. It only got worse when, after two weeks with no signs of Erica or Boyd, Stiles went to the wreckage of the burnt down Hale house and began a pattern of helping Derek map out the places he’d searched and where he had yet to look. He learned about the alpha pack and without consulting Derek, he decided not to tell Scott. A small, selfish part of him wanted to keep his time with Derek to himself.

Over the course of the summer, they learned about each other. Most of their discourse still consisted of bickering, but they began to pick up each other’s nuances. Without ever discussing it aloud, Derek learned about Stiles’ mother and his visceral fear that one day his father wouldn’t come home from work. Stiles learned that Derek had been a pescetarian ever since the fire that claimed the lives of his family. He learned about Kate. They weren’t exactly friends, but they trusted each other. If pressed, Stiles couldn’t have thought of a label for them.

When September rolled in and Scott wanted to go to Derek for his tattoo, Stiles rejected the idea with a vehemence that surprised even himself. But in the end, his loyalty to his best friend won out and he drove Scott to meet with Derek after school, though he brought Scott to the Hale house instead of the loft Derek was currently residing in. Stiles took smug satisfaction in the fact that Scott didn’t even know Derek had purchased property in Beacon Hills.

If any of the comfort Derek and Stiles had built up with each other over the summer showed through in their interactions, it either went unnoticed or Scott kept it to himself.

When everything with the alpha pack and the Darach was over, Derek left. Stiles knew even before Scott called to tell him. At Melissa’s request, he stayed home from school the day after the eclipse to make sure his head injury was nothing serious; but when he returned the second day he came back to find a key on his dresser. There was no address engraved on the key or any significant markings, and yet Stiles knew exactly what it was and what it meant the moment he picked it up.

It meant, “Goodbye,” and it meant, “I’m coming back,” because there was no point in keeping a key to an apartment Derek would never return to. At first Stiles considered wearing the key on a chain around his neck but then the thought came to him, unbidden, of Lydia holding a key on a necklace out to a scale-covered Jackson.

 _I’m not in love_ , Stiles thought that night as he clutched the key in his left hand. His fist clenched and unclenched around it as his right hand touched between his legs, then back farther, making him hiss and writhe in his sheets. A bottle of personal lubricant sat on Stiles’ nightstand and with slick fingers, he pressed inward with a whimper. As he came down from his high, chest heaving, he repeated to himself, _I’m not in love._ He cleaned himself up and swore, jamming the key onto his key-ring roughly.

The first time Stiles spoke to Derek again was not at Allison’s funeral as everyone else thought, but two nights after the Nogitsune was sealed away once more. Sleep was nothing but a daydream. Melissa offered Stiles sedatives, but after his experience in Eichen House he never wanted to be sedated again. As such, Stiles was simply laying in bed with his eyes closed when his window slid open and there was the thud of feet on his floor.

He jolted upright, breath coming in panicked gasps. He scrambled for the metal bat next to his bed and then a dark figure swam into view. Stiles raised the bat and readied to swing when gentle hands covered his and a pair of blue eyes glowed in front of him.

“Hey,” said a soft voice. “It’s only me.”

“D—Derek...” Stiles whispered, relaxing. Derek’s hands fell from his and Stiles set the baseball bat back down. “What are you doing here?”

“Did I wake you?”

Stiles swallowed, glancing at his alarm clock. It was three in the morning. “No,” he croaked. He shifted aside to make room on his bed, felt awkward when Derek didn’t sit down. “You’re probably here to make sure it’s really gone.”

“No,” Derek said, “I know it’s gone.”

“Then why are you here?” Stiles asked.

“You know why.”

And thinking about it, Stiles realized he did. It was because Derek had been here before, racked with guilt in the wake of tragedy. Derek may not have lit the fire himself, but he was no stranger to guilt. There was a sort of complementary aspect to their situations; Stiles’ guilt resulted in a fear of himself, Derek’s guilt resulted in a fear of everyone else.

“You should sleep,” Derek suggested.

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or you’re afraid to try?”

Stiles gritted his teeth. “Afraid to try.”

“I’m right here.”

For some reason, that did the trick. It didn’t matter that the danger was in Stiles’ head; he felt safer knowing there was a werewolf at his side. Derek kept vigilance next to him and Stiles laid back down and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.

In the morning, Derek was gone and Stiles found an unfamiliar key on his key-ring. For a minute, Stiles was filled with mind-numbing terror as he recalled the way the key to the chemistry supply closet had mysteriously appeared on his key-ring when he was first possessed by the Nogitsune. Then his eyes slid along the rest of the ring and he found that the key to Derek’s loft was missing.

No. Not missing, he realized, but _taken._ The breath exited Stiles’ lungs in a relieved sigh at the thought of Derek finding a new apartment that wasn’t tainted with the memories of blood and death. A fresh start.

If asked, Stiles couldn’t have said which was worse: his mother’s funeral or Allison’s. Losing his mother had been one of the hardest times of his life, but a part of him knew he really had played no part in his mother’s death. Allison’s was a different story.

Marin Morrell once quoted Winston Churchill to Stiles. She told him that if he was going through hell, to keep going. Stiles wondered how far he had to go before he left hell and entered purgatory, and from purgatory came upon paradise.

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to make eye-contact with Chris Argent, Isaac, Lydia, or even Scott. This resulted in a lot of looking down. His father clutched his hand like he was a small child and they sat in the third row of the church pews, for Stiles dared not sit any closer to Allison’s casket and the people who loved her so fiercely. Stiles didn’t expect Derek to attend the funeral, but the werewolf moved up to the front of the church to shake Chris’s hand solemnly before he took a seat on Stiles’ other side. They exchanged small talk and Derek pretended not to see Stiles cry, and at the end of the service he brushed his fingertips across the backs of Stiles’ knuckles as he stood up. Then they parted.

Not long after the funeral, Chris Argent went to France to stay with family for a while and Isaac went with him. Stiles couldn’t blame them.

Despite his prodding, Derek never told Stiles where he was living now. Instead he offered only vague clues that led to even more clues, a scavenger hunt through Beacon Hills that sent Stiles on a wild goose chase, the destination always just out of reach. A few months ago Stiles would have shrugged it off as Derek just being Derek—taciturn and socially-avoidant—but he knew better now; this was for Stiles’ benefit. Stiles’ worst enemy was his own mind, the thoughts that came creeping in when he stopped to let himself think. Derek’s solution was to occupy Stiles’ brain with a task that fully engaged his interest, leaving little room for him to turn his thoughts inward. This game continued for just over a month.

Derek’s new apartment was on the third floor of a complex near the park, only a ten minute drive from Stiles’ house. The building was modern, had only been standing for a few years, and the outside was painted white. Stiles’ breath caught when he stood on the landing outside of Derek’s flat and the key on his ring, no longer so new now, easily slid home into the lock and turned beneath his hand. The door opened to reveal Derek standing with his arms crossed and a small smirk on his face, like he’d been waiting for this moment for a while. A crazy part of Stiles wondered if Derek had been standing there the whole month.

“Took you long enough,” Derek finally said.

“Not my fault you can’t give a straight answer,” said Stiles. “Taking lessons from Deaton?” He barged his way into the apartment and immediately began criticising Derek’s lack of decor. Unlike Derek’s old loft, his new apartment took up only one floor and the walls were painted in light colours. The living room, hallway, and two bedrooms were carpeted while the kitchen and bathroom had linoleum. Across from the front door, there was a glass screen door that opened onto a balcony.

Derek rolled his eyes and scowled at Stiles’ biting commentary as he took it upon himself to tour the flat, and Stiles felt a warm rush of affection for him. He wasn’t okay by any means—most nights were still plagued with nightmares when he slept at all and he was still prone to daydreaming and counting his trembling fingers—but the bickering was familiar territory and thus a comfort to him. For the first time in months, Stiles began to fantasize about having sex with Derek again.

Healing was a slow process. It was like driving up a mountain in the winter without snow tires; you’d make a little progress, slip back a little, keep moving forward, get stuck in a snow drift and have to dig yourself out. Stiles saw a lot of Scott and Lydia, and even had appointments with Marin Morrell from time to time—Deucalion’s emissary or not, her degree in psychology was no fabrication. Sometimes Stiles became frustrated with Scott and Lydia; he hated the way they treated him like eggshells underfoot. They were getting better and Scott was even beginning to grow close to Kira again, but they still acted like Stiles was something fragile that could break at any moment. The worst part was when his dad looked at him like he was the whole world and it was falling apart. It was a look of helplessness and inevitability. It was the way he’d looked at Stiles’ mother toward the end.

On these days, Derek’s new loft became a refuge. Derek raised an eyebrow the first time Stiles showed up unannounced, but he never questioned his presence and as Stiles came by more and more often, Derek started to stock his fridge and pantry with foods he knew Stiles preferred; Stiles knew it was for him because he never saw Derek drink a can of cola or eat junk food. Unlike everybody else, Derek didn’t invite Stiles to talk about his experience with the Nogitsune. In fact, with the exception of making enough dinner for both of them, Derek gave Stiles’ presence very little acknowledgement at all unless Stiles initiated conversation. It was soothing in a way Stiles desperately craved and he wondered if this is what Derek had wanted after the fire.

Stiles’ dad took notice of the frequency of Stiles’ visits within less than two weeks and asked with narrowed eyes, “Are you and Hale seeing each other?”

Stiles blinked and shook his head. “No.”

“Because it’s okay if you are. As long as neither of you are pressuring each other and you’re being safe—”

“Really, we aren’t,” said Stiles.

His dad frowned. “Well you’re over there an awful lot.”

Stiles shrugged then. He wanted to say Derek helped, but he didn’t want to imply that his dad wasn’t helping. He knew that Scott and his dad and Lydia were trying _so hard_ to be there for him; it just wasn’t the kind of support he needed all the time. “He gets it,” Stiles said.

His dad’s eyes immediately softened with understanding. Stiles never told his dad about Derek and Kate, but his dad didn’t get to be the sheriff for no reason. “Get going, kid,” he said affectionately.

And Stiles did.

To his surprise, it was his dad who suggested that Derek join them for dinner on Christmas day with the McCalls. Even more shocking: Derek accepted the invitation. His dad had a turkey in the oven and, remembering that he didn’t eat most meat, Stiles prepared salmon with dill sauce for Derek. Melissa and Scott came early since Melissa had some food to throw in the oven, and Derek arrived half an hour later with an awkward shuffle and a hot dish of sliced sweet potatoes, baked in butter and maple syrup. Sheepishly, he said, “My mom used to make them for us every Christmas.”

Derek had been astonished and, from the look on his face, a little touched when Stiles produced the salmon for him at dinnertime.

“I didn’t expect you to remember,” he said.

Stiles brushed it off. “I raid your fridge every other day; it’s hard not to.”

Navigating conversation with Derek Hale at the dinner table was a little awkward, but they soon fell into a relaxed atmosphere. Stiles-before-the-Nogitsune would have pestered and prodded Derek into talking, but Stiles-after-the-Nogitsune was quieter. He and Derek mostly observed the others in silence, though Scott managed to draw them in a few times.

After dinner, Derek insisted on helping to clean up and then they all gathered in the living room to exchange gifts. Scott bought Stiles the box-set for the most recent season of _The X-Files_ and Stiles got Scott a video game he’d been ranting about excitedly. For Derek, Scott had a bottle of all-natural cologne while Stiles bought him the Amazon-famous t-shirt with three wolves howling at the moon. Everyone laughed except for Derek, who rolled his eyes, and Stiles, who smirked. Derek bought an expensive bottle of Italian wine for Melissa and Blue Label whiskey for Stiles’ dad. Scott received a book on leadership and Stiles got a pocket bible.

Stiles squinted at it. “Uh, thanks? Are you telling me I need Jesus in my life?”

“So you always have a way to recognize reality,” Derek said.

Warmth pooled in Stiles’ chest and as he turned the small book over in his hands, a medallion slipped out from between its pages. Puzzled, Stiles picked it up, running his thumb over the surface. The medallion was about two and a half inches in diameter and there was a triskelion engraved in its surface.

“And what’s this?” Stiles asked.

“In case words aren’t enough to anchor you.”

Stiles met Derek’s eyes for a long minute before the werewolf looked away.

With the conclusion of gift-giving, they all settled in to watch _The Santa Clause_. Stiles and his dad watched the movie every year, as they did with his mom before she died. It was her favourite Christmas film. From the nostalgic look on Derek’s face, it had been special to his family as well.

After the movie, Scott and Melissa left. They wished Stiles, his dad, and Derek a merry Christmas and exchanged hugs; Melissa even hauled Derek in for one. Derek looked like he was getting ready to leave too when Stiles stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Go wait in my room for a sec; I have to get something,” Stiles told him.

Derek frowned, but he did as Stiles asked without argument. A few minutes later, Stiles was entering his bedroom with a small, iced red velvet cake with twenty-four lit candles sticking out of the top. Derek, who was seated on the bed, stared wide-eyed as Stiles began to sing Happy Birthday.

Stiles came to a stop shortly in front of Derek and, when he reached the end of the song, said, “Make a wish, Derek.”

Derek blew out the candles in one breath and Stiles produced two forks from the pocket of his hoodie before he sat down next to Derek and plucked a candle from the cake, sucking the icing off of the end. Derek was still staring numbly at Stiles as he licked the last candle clean. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him and shoved one of the forks into his hand.

“What?” he said.

“How did you know?” Derek asked.

“Don’t act so impressed. I saw it on your file when you were arrested,” Stiles replied. “Now shut up and eat some cake.”

They each ate roughly half of the cake, leaving only crumbs and stray streaks of icing on the plate. Then Stiles went to his closet and pulled out a small gift wrapped in garish, balloon-print wrapping paper.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it out at Derek. “Everyone should have a gift for their birthday.”

Derek shook his head. “You already gave me one.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “and it was a gag gift for Christmas. Birthdays trump Christmas.”

Derek swallowed as he unwrapped the present with care and his lips parted as he opened the small box to reveal a beautiful watch with black leather straps, a gold case, and the moon phases pictured about the circumference and a single, golden hand.

“So you’re always ready for that special time of month,” Stiles said.

Wordlessly, Derek held out his hand and there was only a moment of incomprehension before Stiles took the watch from its box and fastened it around Derek’s wrist. Still marvelling at it, Derek said, “You’re nothing like it, you know.”

“Like what?” Stiles asked.

“The Nogitsune.”

They could have heard a pin drop. Derek had referred to the Nogitsune all of twice since Stiles got his body back: the night in his bedroom and tonight with his gift, but never had he mentioned it by name.

“You’re a good person, Stiles,” Derek said.

With a dry mouth, Stiles said, “I liked it. The power, the control... I liked it.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“But it could have been,” Stiles argued. “If things had been different—”

“But they weren’t and you aren’t,” said Derek. “You’re a _good_ person. Someone worth trusting.”

Stiles couldn’t move as Derek thanked him for the gift one more time, and he was still sitting on his bed as he heard Derek go downstairs and thank his father before leaving. Later his dad came up and found him there, and he sat next to Stiles and pulled him into his arms.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles said.

“Looks like you get it too.” His dad kissed him on the top of his head and gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’m proud of you, son.”

Stiles slept that night with the medallion under his pillow and the bible on his nightstand. He didn’t wake up once until morning.

 

Some days Stiles napped on the couch in Derek’s new loft, the bible and the medallion tucked inside his pocket, and other days Stiles and Derek watched movies together. Derek wore the moon watch every day. On Stiles’ worst days, Derek talked about himself. He told Stiles stories from his childhood, running around with his siblings and cousins in the preserve.

A few days after New Year’s, Stiles realized it was the anniversary of the night Scott was bitten and Derek found Laura’s body. That day, Stiles did the talking. He told Derek about the time his dad was working on New Year’s Eve and he and his mom went out into the yard at midnight with sparklers. He told Derek about how, when his mom lit the end of his first sparkler, he was startled by the shower of sparks and thought his hand was going to be burned. With a scream, he’d thrown the sparkler end over end into his neighbour’s bushes, and then he’d cried, thinking the bushes would ignite and it would be all his fault. His mom had laughed at him, and then she’d lit her own sparkler and carefully shown him that the sparks wouldn’t hurt him or the bushes. Stiles talked and talked, like he hadn’t since before the Nogitsune, and he wasn’t even sure Derek was listening from the way he gazed blankly at the coffee table. But when Stiles returned to the loft the next day, there was a package of sparklers on the table and Derek asked if Stiles wanted to go out onto the balcony and light them after dinner.

Stiles swung the sparkler around, spelling out curse words, and Derek called him a child, but Stiles was laughing. For the first time in months, he was really _laughing_ , and then Derek was smiling and he laughed even harder. They spaced out several sparklers equidistantly around the railing of the balcony and lit them all, then stood in the centre with a sparkler in each hand. Derek’s teeth glinted in the light as he grinned and Stiles wanted to kiss him very badly.

When the sparklers burnt out, they gathered the remains and brought them into the apartment to throw away. The only signs that they had ever been out on the balcony were the faded scorch marks on the pavement and the faint smell of cordite on the wind.

Allison’s birthday came at the beginning of February and Stiles spent it with Derek.

“What do you think it’s like,” he asked, “to die?”

“Easy,” said Derek. “The hard part is living.”

Derek started telling Stiles about Laura then, something he’d started to do more often after the night with the sparklers, but Stiles was still caught on what he’d said about living. He thought about those words a lot, afterward.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Stiles began talking more. He saw Scott and Lydia more often and his grades picked back up. He stopped seeing Morrell altogether. He looked back and saw progress. He wasn’t the same as he was before the Nogitsune, but there was improvement. There were fewer days where he found himself scrambling for the bible in his pocket, reading the scripture over and over just because he could. The first time Stiles and Derek had an argument, Stiles almost cried with relief as he clutched the key to the apartment while sitting in his jeep, thinking, _I’ve still got it._ They argued a lot after that.

Of course, this new peace couldn’t last.

It was a chilly spring night and they were all at the preserve: Stiles, Derek, Scott, Kira, and Lydia. The hand of Derek’s watch pointed toward the full moon. They’d gathered in a clearing and raked the dead leaves away from the middle, where a small, contained fire burned happily. Scott and Derek found some fallen logs that they dragged over for them to sit on, and Stiles and Kira were roasting marshmallows. Stiles handed a golden brown marshmallow to Lydia, who took it daintily between her fingertips and tried to eat it as neatly as possible. A string of melted sugar stuck to her lip.

Then all hell broke loose.  

A crossbow bolt pierced Scott’s calf, making him cry out in shock and pain. Stiles and Kira brandished their sticks like weapons and Derek crouched with his fangs out and his claws curled. From behind the trees, all around them, hunters emerged with their weapons drawn. An older woman with a rifle parted from the group, approaching Derek.

“Long time no see, Derek Hale,” said the woman with a Spanish accent.

Derek growled. “Araya.”

It was the Calaveras, Stiles realized. Derek had told him about the hunters from Mexico who had captured him and Peter, torturing them for information on a she-wolf.

“I made the mistake of taking you and your estranged uncle last time,” said Araya. “I had thought that threatening the last of your family might make you talk. I see now I was wrong. A threat to your pack, however, is more of an incentive to cooperate.”

“Hey, look, he doesn’t know anything,” Stiles said, stepping forward.

“Stiles, don’t,” said Derek.

Araya swung her rifle toward Stiles. “And we’ve found our pressure point.”

“He’s human,” Derek told her. “Leave him out of this.”

“He’s with your pack on the night of the full moon,” said Araya. “From the looks of things, he’s already involved.”

“Nah. Actually, Derek’s got a good point,” said Stiles. “You see, my dad’s the sheriff, so shooting me probably isn’t a good idea. Especially if you don’t want to be tried for first degree murder. I’m betting it’s kind of hard to hunt werewolves from jail.”

With a sneer, Araya turned the gun back on Derek. “Is it true, what the boy says: you know nothing of the she-wolf?”

“I only know two she-wolves,” said Derek. “One of them is dead and the other is beyond your reach.”

Araya stared at him for a while longer, then said to the man next to her, “He’s useless to us. Shoot him.”

“No!” Stiles dug his feet into the dirt and ran toward Derek. Scott yanked the arrow from his leg and lunged at the man lifting his gun.

There was a deafening crack.

Stiles once read that when people recall physical pain, they remember the sensation as far less intense than it actually was. He remembered the agony as the Nogitsune dragged a blade across his abdomen, had touched the scar many times in the months past. But the pain that seeped into his bones now was far worse, and far more terrifying.

The pain didn’t hit him right away. The first thing Stiles felt was the front of his pants growing wet, and then that dampness trickling down his thigh. For a humiliating moment, he thought he’d pissed himself, but then his legs disappeared and the earth was against his back and he could feel the way his shirt was sticking to his stomach.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _I’ve been shot._

Then the pain hit and he began to gasp like a fish out of water.

He could hear roars and snarls and guns and screaming, but the worst sound was the desperate voice calling, “Stiles? Stiles, hold on! We’re going to get you help!” There was pressure on his stomach and he whimpered with pain. A hand immediately clamped down onto his and the pain began to dull.

Panicked, Stiles cried, “No! No!” The pain was awful but the ability to feel it meant that he was alive. If there was no pain, then he might be dead and not even know it. The hand disappeared and he groaned as the sensation came back worse than ever.

He remembered a game he’d played with Heather as children; he would lay down and close his eyes, and Heather would describe the things she was doing while using her hands to mimic her actions. She told Stiles she was cutting open his stomach and made scissoring motions across his torso. Then she grabbed at his skin and told him she was taking out all of his organs, and Stiles swore he could feel himself becoming hollow. Then Heather would pat her hands on his stomach, telling him she was filling him up with rocks. After she sewed him together again, she told Stiles to sit up, but he could not. He was too heavy.

Stiles felt that way now and he knew he was dying. After Allison was killed by the oni, he had wished for death, but now that he was facing it Stiles found that he was afraid. There were so many things he needed to do. He needed to have a relationship and graduate high school and have sex. He needed to take care of Scott and Lydia and his dad and now Derek. God, Derek. There were so many things Stiles had to tell him. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t ready.

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over, running down the sides of his face and into his hair while wretched, _aching_ sobs sent tiny jerks through his body.

Derek’s voice said, “Stiles, _no_ ,” and a hand began brushing away his tears. Stiles clung to the hand, gripping it so tightly he thought the bones might break. The pain was dulling again and this time he knew it wasn’t because of Derek.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles whispered. “ _Please._ ” _Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let this be the end._

“I’ve got you,” Derek said, “and I’m not letting you get away from me this time.”

“Okay.”

The fuzzy shape of Derek’s face hovered above his and then everything went black.

 

Stiles was getting really sick of hospitals. Derek and his dad were seated in chairs on either side of him when he woke up, morphine and a blood transfusion trickling lazily into his veins. With the corner of his mouth tilting up, Stiles slurred to Derek, “We really gotta stop meeting like this.”

“You really gotta stop running into loaded guns,” said his father angrily. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Wolfsbane,” Stiles said in a sing-song voice.

“Sheriff,” Derek said suddenly, “do you mind if I have a moment with Stiles alone?”

“If you can talk some sense into him, I don’t mind if you get _married_.” His dad leaned over then and kissed his forehead. “I can’t lose you, kid.”

Stiles whispered, “I love you too, Dad.”

His dad ruffled his hair before leaving the room, and then it was just Stiles and Derek.

Derek stared down at his lap. “Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. I nearly asked Scott to _bite_ you.”

“No can do,” said Stiles.

“Stiles, you nearly _died!_ ” Derek snapped.

“I know.” Suddenly, the foggy effects of the morphine seemed far away and Stiles was very sober. “I thought about what you said back in February. For the longest time I agreed with you, but I think you’re wrong now.”

“About what?” Derek asked.

“Dying,” said Stiles. “You said dying was easy.

“When I was bleeding out in the woods, I thought about a lot of things; but one of the last things I thought about was my mom. When she died, she barely even recognized us anymore. For her, there was nothing that really mattered. I was so mad when she died. She was gone and I was left behind and it hurt so much. Then there was Allison; I thought I wanted to die after that. Living became a day to day challenge that I had to overcome. I’m betting you felt the same way after Paige and the fire, and then again with Laura and Erica and Boyd.

“But the difference between us and them is that we’re the survivors. We’ve only ever been on this side of the equation. But tonight I almost wasn’t, and I have never been more terrified in my entire life. All I could think about were all the things I would never get to do, the things I’d never get to say... to dad, to Scott, to Lydia... and to you. And I realized that nothing I’ve ever done in my entire life has been as hard as preparing to say goodbye and leave you all behind. _I didn’t want to leave._

“I remember when my panic attacks were really bad I used to envy Scott for his asthma. I envied the way he could just take a puff from his inhaler and everything would be okay again and he could breathe. Meanwhile I’d be hyperventilating and there was nothing even wrong with my lungs. There was no medicine I could take for it because it was all in my head.

“After the Nogitsune, it was like I was having a panic attack all the time. My chest felt tight and there was so much tension I felt like I could burst. But then you became my own personal inhaler. You didn’t even have to do anything, but you made it easier to breathe. With you, Derek, there’s nothing in the world easier than living.”

Derek stared at Stiles and swallowed hard, then his hand came to cover Stiles’. Stiles laced their fingers together.

Stiles was fortunate; the bullet didn’t tear through any major organs, so he didn’t have to stay in the hospital for long. He still had to take it easy when he went home, make sure he didn’t pull his stitches, but Scott, Lydia, and Kira were over often enough that Stiles rarely had to do anything on his own. Derek came over in the night, watching over him the way he had so many months ago.

Derek told him that after he passed out, they managed to fight off the Calaveras and Scott made a deal with Araya. Any injuries that had been inflicted were nonfatal, so they left in peace. Stiles still didn’t trust her, but that was okay because neither did Derek.

As soon as he was able to, Stiles began driving himself to Derek’s loft again. The first time he walked in, Derek simply smiled.

They sat on either side of the couch, reading, and at one point Stiles just stopped and began watching Derek. He thought about this man and everything they’d been through together, the things that they’d done for each other. He said softly, “Hey.”

“Hm?” Derek stuck his thumb in the pages of his book and looked up at Stiles patiently.

“I love you,” said Stiles.

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitched and he said, “I love you too.”

Stiles moved over until he was sitting with his side pressed up against Derek’s, leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder. They went back to reading.

They kissed for the first time two days later. Derek was leaning over Stiles’ shoulder to pick a movie on his laptop and Stiles just turned his head and slotted their mouths together. It was chaste and sweet and then it ended. They watched the movie and shared their second kiss before Stiles left.

Touching became a new, regular occurrence between them. Derek would casually rest a hand on Stiles’ hip while reaching for a glass from the cupboard. Stiles would lay across the couch with his feet in Derek’s lap.

Scott noticed the change in Stiles’ smell within a week and asked during lunch period, “So you and Derek?”

“Yep,” Stiles replied.

“Does he make you happy?” There was nothing accusatory about Scott’s tone; only concern for his best friend.

Stiles felt the weight of the medallion in his pocket; he didn’t need to carry the bible with him anymore. “He makes me better.”

Scott smiled then. “That’s all I could ever ask for.”

 

The first time Stiles thought about losing his virginity, he painted an image of someone else’s romance in his head. He pictured perfection.

Actually losing his virginity was better.

It had been over a month since Stiles and Derek first shared a kiss. They stripped each other bare and Derek traced the scars on Stiles’ stomach—the gash from the Nogitsune and the new star-shaped one from the bullet—first with his hands, and then with his lips. Then his mouth trailed lower and lower until Stiles was gasping with his hands in Derek’s hair.

Having someone else’s fingers inside of him was different from using his own. The angle was better and the stretch was different. Derek’s fingers were thicker than his. Derek reached the parts inside of him that made him squirm far easier than he’d ever been able to on his own. With three fingers, Derek rubbed at Stiles’ prostate until he was nearly begging, then Derek withdrew and coated his erection with lubricant. He pressed against Stiles' entrance teasingly, just breaching him with the tip before drawing away. The second time he did this, Stiles grabbed a pillow from behind him and swatted Derek in the head with it, making him laugh.

When Derek finally pushed inside of him, Stiles’ breath caught in his throat and his hands scrabbled at Derek’s shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” Derek told him. “I’ve got you.”

It felt strange and the stretch was too wide to be pleasurable, but Stiles couldn’t stop staring at Derek. They were as close to each other as they could ever be. With a choked voice, he said, “I love you.”

Derek brushed his damp hair back from his forehead and kissed his lips softly. “I love you too.”

Then he began to move.

Stiles didn’t get much out of it initially, but he loved watching Derek’s face and seeing the sheer happiness in his eyes. He kissed Derek’s cheek, his jaw, his neck. When Derek finally glanced over his prostate, Stiles’ feet kicked out with shock and narrowly missed Derek’s hip.

“More,” he gasped.

Preserving the angle, Derek began to thrust his hips faster and harder, punching out moans from Stiles. Derek made soft sounds in the back of his throat and stroked Stiles' sides and hips. Their mouths came together and they panted against each other about as much as they kissed.

Stiles felt his body tensing like a bowstring as the pleasure built up higher and higher. “Please,” he breathed.

“Stiles...” Derek reached between them and took Stiles’ hard length in his hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. Within seconds Stiles came with a broken cry, clutching at Derek. Sparks burst across his eyes, like the sparklers they’d played with in January, and his thighs trembled. Derek’s hips stuttered to a stop against Stiles’ as he gasped out his own orgasm, and Stiles wasn’t sure if the warmth he felt inside of him was Derek or the aftershocks.

They spent a few minutes kissing and holding each other before they reluctantly pulled apart. Derek got a washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned them up, then they tucked themselves under the blankets and clung together. In hushed voices, they talked. They talked about the fantasies they’d had and their plans for the future. Stiles was amazed he could even have a future. But with Derek at his side and in his arms, he felt like he could do anything.


End file.
